


the ephemeralist

by SmallSith



Category: Original Work
Genre: Character Death, Drabble Collection, Magic, Violence, Writing Exercise, consensual murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2018-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5717821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallSith/pseuds/SmallSith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a dump of short stories and writing exercises</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lamb

He held her gaze like a fragile thing as they stood in the dark of the deserted parking lot, afraid that if he looked at her too hard the moment would shatter. “It’s okay, I’m ready,” he said, his voice rough and shaking. He swallowed hard. A warm summer breeze floated through the air between them. The boy took a deep breath, steadying his resolve. “Do it, ____. I’m ready.” 

His eyes fluttered closed as he licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry from the fear that if he looked at her now, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, arms rigid and feet planted, as if he was forcing himself not to run away. "I know what I have to do. Just- just make sure no one finds me, okay?"

She didn't look at him, didn't say anything, just gripped the dagger in her hand tighter, her knuckles going white with the strain of it and still it felt nowhere near as tight to her as the awful constriction in her chest. She took a step back, and for a short second as she pulled away from him, she thought about turning and running, but the thought was gone as soon as it came, and she was sliding the blade between his ribs.

A spurt of blood bubbled on his lips and he eyes sputtered open, going wide, pupils blown. The pale blue of his irises was almost invisible in the gloom, but she could see the tears welling up there all too well. The same tears streamed down from her own eyes, dripping down her nose and chin, splattering on the concrete beneath her feet alongside the gentle crimson droplets of his blood.

He locked eyes with her once more with a ragged gasp. Time seemed to slow as he reached out with one hand, his mouth opening as if he were trying to impart some last desperate warning, and then he was gone, and she was alone there, in the dark parking lot, the lights overhead dim and flickering. Her eyes fluttered closed, and ____ bent and picked up the boy's crumpled body before she turned and cast her gaze to the treeline waiting just on the other side of the highway. She glanced back, just as she stepped under the canopy, and searched for the stain on the pavement where he had died, but the lights of the parking lot were not bright enough, and she could not see it. She ducked her head in resignation, looking at the boy's face, pale with death already, and carried him home.


	2. Lost

They said the forest was cursed, and as he searched for home he began to think they were right. The trees were black and bare, leafless even in summer, and a cold wind blew here always. He shuddered, rubbing his hands on his arms, searching in vain for some kind of warmth. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow he would come back with a flashlight and a coat, and he would not be deterred.

But for now it was cold and wet, even though it hadn’t rained in weeks, and he was hungry and tired and had no idea where he was. Right then, he hated this forest, and he wished he’d never come to this wretched place. He stared down at the ground as he walked, because if he didn’t he’d start to see things, and he didn’t want to see things because he’d forgotten his camera, and without a viewfinder between him and the things he saw, they scared him.

So he stared down at the ground beneath him, even though looking at it wasn’t much more pleasant than seeing things dart between the dead trees. The forest floor was carpeted in fallen twigs and bones, and rotten leaves that could not have come from such lifeless trees. He tried not to wonder where all these bones could have come from. He tried not to think that if he did not find home, he could soon be joining them.

A scream echoed through the trees, and his head shot up. At once, he was more awake and energized than he had been in hours. This was it, this was what he’d come here for, what made the people talk of this dead forest in hushed tones and whisper of curses. He dug in his sweatshirt pocket for his recorder and pressed the button with its little red dot.

The scream rang out again, and a flock of birds roosting in the nearby trees took flight and began adding a chorus of their own to the screaming. With a start, he realized they were crows- another sign of the phenomena he was here for.

And that was when he saw her standing between two trees just ahead of him, a crow perched on one long, pale finger- the fabled goddess of the dead forest.


	3. Mistake

In that moment, the crystal golem looks down at her body, eyes wide and mouth agape in a silent O, her voice failing her as she watches, helpless to stop it, as her body becomes a spiderweb of fractures and begins to break apart even as she tries in vain to hold it together, her fingers breaking off as she grabs wildly at her torso, struggling to keep herself from shattering.

You look down at her, your own eyes wide, your own mouth agape in a silent O, your own voice failing you as you watch her crumble. You step backwards, away from the horror in front of you, the doll you’ve slain. Her dress pools around her on the ground, spilling off of shattered shoulders too shapeless to hold it up any longer.

And as you watch her legs splinter our from under her, the cracks spreading over her face and into her eyes, you begin to question your orders from the nutcracker prince.

 _“I just wanted to be real,”_ she sobs, lying crumpled on the ground, _“I just wanted to be loved,”_ before at last, her head, too, breaks apart and she is once again no more than porcelain and paint, a china doll in pieces, and you feel as though you lost something incredibly precious when you struck her down, something you never knew you had.

 _The nutcracker prince was wrong,_ you think, as you look down at your vanquished foe. Perhaps you ought to feel victorious, but instead you can only feel hollow, like the ceramic of the china girl’s body. _No one needed to die tonight._


	4. Finis

Kazimiera gazed out across the lake. Spring had come, and summer after, and now autumn knocked on the island's door once again, but this time it came as a guest, just passing through. It did not come to stay.

She breathed in deeply of the crisp autumn air. The leaves on the trees, so newly sprung, were now turning golden and falling from their branches. At first she'd feared the islanders would be afraid that the winter would come and never end, but it felt different. All of them could feel it. Like a puzzle out of order, the missing pieces had fitted back into place.

The winter would come, and then spring after, and then summer would come bounding in. She gazed out across the lake- not the one the island sprouted from, but the sacred pond she'd nearly drowned in only a year ago. She felt a smile alight on her face, thinking back to it. At the time, she'd been terrified, sure she was going to die. But after everything that had happened, she felt a nostalgia for the days gone by.

Today was the day, she could feel it in her bones. The first of autumn had arrived. She stood in the garden of the little hut she had restored, idly sweeping the front walk, her not not really in the task. Her attention continually drifted to the glassy black surface of the lake.

With the villagers' help, she had dredged the lake's depths and buried the bones of those whose lives were sacrificed to keep the island alive. They rested in a small cemetery on the edge of the forest now, and Kazimiera had made sure their spirits were at peace now. The dead knew now what purpose their deaths had served, and they watched over the villagers now.

Today was the day. Kazimiera set aside the broom, letting it lean on the garden wall, and knelt at the edge of the lake. 

The still surface of the black water broke into ripples, lapping at the stony shore, as something dark and monstrous rose from the depths. Kazimiera reached out both hands to it and pulled it from the water. The icy lakewater streamed from her hair in dark rivulets, and Marzanna looked up into Kazimiera's eyes. "I know your face," she murmured, holding a lock of Kazimiera's hair in one damp hand, "and yours is the face of love. Life and spring and beauty."

"Yes," Kazimiera whispered, voice bright and cracking, eyes welling with tears. She had wept the last time she had held Marzanna in her arms, but this time they were tears of joy. She brushed the pad of one thumb over the icy plane of Marzanna's cheekbone. "I am Kazimiera, and you are MArzanna, and you are home."

Marzanna smiled, reaching one hand up to caress Kazimiera's face. "I remember." She gave a slow blink of her near-white eyes. "Let's go inside. The island feels different now, better. I want you to tell me everything."

And they did.


	5. Change

Her forest had stood for many years, weathering time and storm alike. And she had stood there, too, as unchanging as her forest.

Though the last leaves had long fallen from her branches, her forest still stood. Though the grass and birds and all the little woodland creatures had long since vanished, the forest stood on. Though the life had long since gone from her eyes, and her skin turned the winter white of bones, she still stood, too.

A boy had come, she knew- another, like so many before him. He came to find her, for whatever reason. The boys always had a reason.

Why they came differed from boy to boy, but in the end they always came for her. Perhaps this one wanted answers. Perhaps her forest had taken someone again to sustain itself- a dead forest cannot live on nothing, after all. Perhaps he came for a new start, somewhere where no one knew him, somewhere he thought his mistakes could not find him. Perhaps he had come to help (nearly all the boys came to help, and she always loved them a little for their kindness, their dedication, and they always, always died for it). Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Every boy who came to help wanted, somewhere deep inside him, the admiration that saving the island would bring them. They always tried to hide such lofty ambitions, lowering their eyes and speaking of having heard of the island people's struggle and wanting to lend whatever aid he could. They all dreamed of being heroes, at least a little bit, and they all died, all the same. Time stops for no one, man or boy, only for Marzanna and her eternal winter.

She tried to stay away from him, but she felt drawn to him all the same. She had long since given up hope that one of these brave, arrogant, beautiful boys would lift her curse. Four hundred years was a long time, even for a goddess. He would die all the same, leaving his bones to feed her forest, like all those before him.

There was always a boy, his heart always set on finding her, on realizing whatever goal he had come here for. This one had brought along a sister, a party of friends. The pattern had played out so many times that now- now, there was so little she had not already seen, and yet each time it tore her frozen heart open anew. The boys often came with friends, with family. With dreams and hope and kindness.

And yet, despite the surety of this boy's failure, hope curled inside her anew, the cruelest edge of this curse she endured. The hope they brought with them drew her in like a moth to a flame, a flame that had long since abandoned her people.

They stood together at the edge of her wood, snapping pictures and filming, talking among themselves. The group was a colorful bunch, standing out like spring flowers against the grays and blacks of the island’s scenery. The boy stood out particularly, his hair raven-black, his eyes bright as stars, and his mouth made for smiling. The boys always had hair raven-black, and eyes bright as stars, and mouths made for smiling, and she could never spare them- just as they could never save her.

Their voices were bright and cheerful, shot through with excitement, and for a moment the threads of their exhilaration pulled at Marzanna’s frozen heart, but it faded so fast she did not even have time to hope before it was snatched away. She pressed a hand to the stillness of her chest, where once she had felt a heartbeat, but there was only silence waiting for her there.

She watched them, though, in their pursuits. They walked about, with cameras in hand, scribbling down notes and talking to the villagers. She watched as these strange outsiders helped the elderly with their chores in exchange for stories, for local legends and histories. She watched them climb ladders to fix roof shingles and feed goats and collect chicken eggs. She watched them help the fishermen repair their nets and learn the island's songs.

All these outsiders were strange, if kind, and yet one in the group was different from the others, stranger still in a way Marzanna could not quantify. She was a young woman with long dark hair and a far-away expression and a smile so kind Marzanna thought her frozen heart would break anew. The girl studied the plantlife, or what little of it remained, taking pictures and taping samples of grass and grain and fern into a book. This girl with her book of plants and her distant gaze had been the first to lend her aid to the villagers.

She was the boy's sister, like many sisters before her. And yet, she was like none of them had been. The winter goddess watched as this girl- this Kazimiera- placed one hand on the black trunk of one of Marzanna's trees, and then- then, she knew what it was that made this girl so different.

Springtime on the island had long since died, her bones littering the temple floor, pinned there by a sword Marzanna could see but not touch. But when the girl's hand alighted on the bark of the tree, Marzanna felt it stir in response, a green surge that railed at the confines of its wooden skin, struggling to explode into leafbuds, before something snuffed it out.

She watched as the brother walked over to join his sister, marveling at the inky bark of the trees. He, too, placed one hand on the trunk, running his fingers over its ridges and knobs. Again, the green surged within the tree, struggling in vain to burst into life before some strange force snuffed it into silence again.

And for the first time in four hundred years, Marzanna dared to hope. She watched through the frosted windowpanes as the girl slept, unable to tear her eyes away. If anyone was to save her and her island, it would be this boy, it would be this girl, the two of them.

This cycle would be like none before it, Marzanna knew, now. It was only a matter of how.


	6. Monster

Your fingers close around the beast's heart and squeeze, and it chokes out a sandpaper laugh, gurgling in its vile mirth. Even in the light of the lantern, you struggle to discern its features. There is no sunlight in this dark wood, and the creatures who inhabit it are inky nightmares to match. The beast lies pinned, impaled on your sword. Its eyes, though- its eyes stand out in its viscous oilslick of a face. They are golden, bright, and stare straight at you.

"You have bested me, hero," it crows. "But I am not alone in my death! Look around you, great hero! See where your friends have gone to!" Your fist squeezes shut and blood squelches up through your fingers. The monster laughs again, its eyes clouded with pain and unfocused from bloodloss, but still it refuses to die quietly.

Your friends stand around you as smears of viscera on the treetrunks and splinters of bone among the leaflitter. They are splattered on your face, seeped into your clothes, staining your hands, matted in your hair. The dragmarks where they were snatched from the edge of the lantern's light are the breadcrumb trail that will lead you home. The monster gives a gurgling cackle. "I am not alone, o wondrous hero- but _you are!_ Do you think these woods empty, as you make your way back to your village to tell the elders you have slain the beast? Fool! I am but one of many, and your kind cannot keep us here forever! We will find a way, and you will regret your wardenhood a thousandfold!"

"Be silent," you command the beast, casting its ruined heart down to the forest floor. You draw your cloak tighter around yourself, grip the hilt of your sword so hard the leather of your gloves threatens to tear. You are not afraid. You are not. The abomination's words mean nothing to you.

The beast laughs again, but its cackling is cut off by choking coughs, its breath comes in ragged gasps. It will not be long now.

"You have won, hero," it says at last. "But there will always be another. We will win eventually."

You pull your sword from the creature's mangled body, drawing a shuddering moan of agony from the monster's mouth. You feel no pity for this wretched thing, no pity at all. It has earned what you have done to it. It would have done the same to you, given the chance. You were right to kill it. You were right. You were right.

"I said," you hiss through gritted teeth, the point of your sword between the beast's luminous golden eyes, "be _silent._ " You plant your feet more firmly in the leaflitter, sword in one hand, lantern in the other, and you watch the beast draw its last, ragged gasps, until at last it moves no more. You raise your gaze to the canopy above, where still no light reaches through the branches.

It is utterly dark, without your lantern you would never find your way back. You give the beast one last look, and you note with shock that it has melted away, leaving in its place a small, chick-like creature lying curled in the detritus. With a trembling feeling inside your chest, you kneel and set aside your sword, reaching with one gloved hand to pick up the tiny thing. The little bird-like creature is soft, and warm, and feels so very fragile in your hands.

Under the light of your lantern, it gives a soft wail and squirms, opening eyes as luminous and golden as those of the beast you have just slain. For a moment that feels like an eternity, you wonder if you should kill it. If it is anything like the beast it so clearly came from, it is a danger to your village, your family, to what few friends you have left. And yet it is so soft, and small, so tiny and fragile and so clearly helpless. You cannot leave it here, to be corrupted by the evils of the wood, and you cannot kill it.

Not knowing what else to do, you sheathe your sword and wrap the tiny creature in your scarf. When you begin the treacherous journey back to your village, the strange, bird-like thing is cradled in your arms.

Perhaps, this time, we can do better.


End file.
